


Tethered

by novelice33



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Modern AU, TW: implicit references to conversion therapy and electroshock therapy, angst with a happy ending if you squint, no magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29760852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelice33/pseuds/novelice33
Summary: What if Pippa had grown up with unsupportive parents? Inspired by the premise of "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" and the implications of confinement, this is a story of Hicsqueak finding each other over and over again.“You found me,” the other girl whispers disbelievingly.“Of course, I found you.” Crawling into the narrow bed, she wraps her lithe body around the other girl, enveloping her in her heat. Her rapid breaths puff lightly against icy skin, as she leans into the blonde, nuzzling into her neck, the exposed crest of her shoulder.Another rage-filled scream rips through the air, solidifying in the stillness.“They say she’s a bad seed. That she did something horrible to her neighbor.” She hears a ragged intake of breath as the other girl chokes out, “They say I’m different, that I’m only sick. That this will cure me.” The girl breaks into muffled sobs, and she pulls her tighter against her chest, resolved enough for the both of them. “I’m afraid.” Quivering fingers clasp her own. “I don’t want to lose you. That’s the part that terrifies me most. Help me to remember?” the other girl pleads.
Relationships: Hardbroom/Pentangle (Worst Witch)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: implicit references to conversion therapy and electroshock therapy
> 
> This story came to me in a nightmare and then morphed into this. Thanks for reading! 
> 
> And if anyone is looking for affirming resources related to the former, these may be helpful:  
> 1) The Trevor Project: national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to LGBTQ young people under 25.  
> https://www.thetrevorproject.org/  
> 2) Q Christian Fellowship: space for LGBTQ+ Christians and allies to grapple with questions around faith and experience radical belonging  
> https://www.qchristian.org/

Hecate tapped her fingers lightly against the cheap linoleum tabletop, contemplating the clinic across the street and scrunching her nose in mild distaste. Back ramrod straight, she sipped at her cup of coffee and breathed in the scents of the morning, bitter coffee beans intermingling with the sugary sweetness of baked treats wafting in from the kitchens. All around her swirled the perfunctory chatter of customers placing their orders during the early rush, which she did her best to ignore. Nearby, Azura was wiping down a table of haphazard crumbs and a few stray splatters of coffee. Why people could not keep their drinks in their cups, Hecate would never understand, and as if reading her thoughts, the young teenage girl sent a cheeky grin her way. Hecate returned it with a wry glance of her own and shook her head to decline Azura’s silent offer of a refill.

Hecate hardly knew why she had chosen this somewhat rundown café as her second office. The coffee was mediocre, the décor abysmally cheerful, the staff intrusively knowing, and Hecate was no fan of sweets. But for going on almost a decade now, this was where she came to write, and it seemed nowhere else would do.

It was far from her usual style, as anyone who knew her could attest, although the list would be a short one. Hecate tended to keep to herself. “For our resident misanthrope,” Indigo Moon, the proprietor of the humble establishment, would say with a half-exasperated roll of her eyes, dropping off a mug of steaming black coffee, fresh from the pot, as Hecate settled herself into her corner table early each morning, shrugging out of her long dark overcoat and turning her back on the rest of the café to stare out the window. And there she would sit for hours, her painstaking notes strewn across the table, typing away on her worn but sturdy laptop, and pausing only for a sparse lunch when tempted and occasionally indulging in dessert. Counting out her change at the end of the day, Indigo would mutter with a put-upon grumble, “A lousy £20.50 from waiting on your joyful self all day.” Suffice it to say, Indigo loved her.

The view, if one could even call it that, was unimpressive. Large windows faced out onto the parking lot of the Crescent Café and a commercial street that was bustling with cars during the early morning and evening and almost austerely quiet the other hours of the day. Hecate appreciated the hum of silence in the afternoons, even if it came with an uninterrupted line of sight to the oppressive clinic across the way, but she supposed Indigo felt quite the opposite. Every few months, Hecate would catch glimpses of the good-humored woman hunched over the counter, her bottom lip worried between her teeth and her hand combing compulsively through frazzled black curls as she ran her finger down rows of meticulously tracked accounts, undoubtedly calculating whether and how she would make ends meet that quarter.

Hecate took another sip of her coffee to calm her nerves, and she felt the warm liquid loosening her tense muscles. Her temple was throbbing, and a dull pain filled her chest, like a single long note, constant, unceasing, merciless, to accompany the pulsing beat of a tedious drum. Two days ago, she and Ada had been driving past the campus of Weirdsister College on their way back from their yearly trip to a neighboring pumpkin patch, a fall tradition of sorts, and Hecate had had no respite since.

Apparently, watching her girlfriend wince through dinner after tossing and turning the night before had been too much for Ada, and Hecate had been only a few bites into her salad when Ada had tentatively suggested that a visit to the doctor might help. Hecate had halfheartedly protested. She was fine, she had said. She was sure it would pass. It always did. But in the end, she had agreed to the appointment, and Ada had made the call. There was an ache deep in her lungs that was becoming increasingly difficult to dismiss, as if she was underwater and suddenly realizing the imperative to breathe. Besides, she reminded herself, she was long overdue for a check-up anyway.

Hecate had actually met Ada in this very café. A few years after she had stumbled upon the modest charms of the Crescent Café, she had bumped into the younger woman. Even now, she could remember the shy smile, the crimson blush spreading across the petite brunette’s rounded cheeks, her eyes wide behind dark-framed glasses, and her mouth opened in surprise. Hecate had been coming out of the bathroom. She had been in a foul mood that day, frustrated about a deadline, questioning her career, and wondering about her next steps. She had been so angry, had felt like she was treading water, purposeless, meandering. And then she had seen this stranger beaming at her, and everything around her had seemed to sharpen. Her vision had crispened, as if all the pieces of her life were falling effortlessly into place.

A few minutes later, Ada had taken a seat at the table next to hers, seeming to leisurely peruse the lunch menu, when she had leaned almost playfully towards Hecate. “I hope you don’t mind, but this is my first time here. Is there anything you would recommend?”

Hecate should have, in fact, minded. Any other day, any other person, she would have, but Ada had been different. She had discovered affection in Ada’s eyes.

“I always order the same,” Hecate had awkwardly stuttered, indicating her own half-eaten plate.

“You’re loyal. I admire that in a person,” Ada had declared coyly as she fidgeted with her glasses, emanating a magnetic combination of soft-spoken boldness that had tugged at Hecate’s heart. Over the years, Hecate had marveled at her girlfriend’s temerity that first encounter. It was so unlike the woman she had grown to love. Ada was a quiet, calming presence. Nurturing came naturally to her, which was evident in her interactions with her young students, and lucky for Hecate, who struggled to rustle up even a handful of fond childhood memories for comparison. Ada was a soothing balm to Hecate’s brittle edges, and in turn, Ada never failed to inspire within her an instinctive desire to protect her girlfriend’s gentle soul from all harm. 

Whenever Hecate had raised the question about that first meeting, Ada, ever the romantic, had simply shrugged in explanation, “From the moment I saw you, I felt as if I knew you.” And strange as it sounded, Hecate had felt it too, a bloom of recognition unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Ada had been a gift, an anchor, a lifeline. Perhaps the fates had a sense of humor after all, and there really was a rhyme or reason to life’s little happenstances.

Just then, Hecate’s attention was caught by a small plate being slid across the table. It held a single, pink-frosted donut dotted with a smattering of rainbow sprinkles. As she looked up in confusion, she saw Azura hovering by her table. For a moment, Hecate could still see the little girl, who had sidled her way into Hecate’s life with her innocent questions and the blunt observations of an inquisitive six-year-old. One unseasonably cool September afternoon, she had felt a tap on her arm, and there had stood a curious little black girl, her hair done up in pigtails.

“You come here every day, and you always sit alone. Are you lonely?” Without waiting for an answer, her mother nowhere in sight, the girl had climbed onto the empty chair opposite her and proceeded to join her for lunch, her sympathetic face resting on still-chubby arms with her elbows propped on the table and her short legs swinging beneath, and just like that, Hecate had become privy to all the dramatic goings-on of Ms. Markowitz’s first grade class.

With a blink, the little girl was replaced by the gangly teen standing by her table with a knowing grin, her mother’s daughter to a tee. “Your favorite. Fresh out of the oven. Mum thought you looked like you might need it.” In her periphery, Hecate could see Indigo watching her concernedly from behind the register.

Hecate permitted a small smile to escape her lips before nodding at the clock. “You’d better hurry, or you’ll be late for school.”

With a quick hug, Azura chirped, “Bye, Aunt Hecate.”

Hecate wordlessly accepted the plate with an appreciative smile as Azura ducked behind the busy counter to shuck off her apron, give her mother a peck on the cheek, and swing on her backpack before rushing out the door to catch her bus. Picking at the overly sweet dough, Hecate stifled a chuckle at the dissonant thought that somehow this had become “her favorite.” She rarely ate the donut in its entirety, more often than not merely nibbling at the edges. It was not quite her thing, overwhelming her rather sedate palate, and yet, there was something about the girlish treat that brought her comfort. It always had.

With another glance at the clock, the thumping in her head getting more persistent, Hecate threw on her coat, and tossing a few bills to cover the check and a generous tip, she hurtled into the chilly fall air.

Squinting against the morning light, Hecate dragged her feet across the black asphalt of the parking lot and waited by the crosswalk. Gusts of wind blew against heavy branches, and a few bright red, star-shaped leaves still hung from the trees, while others skittered and swirled in a frenzied dance along the street. Huddling her face into the collar of her coat to shield it from the stinging cold, she hurried her steps and struggled against the wind to pull open the metal doors to the clinic. When she finally pried the doors open, Hecate lost her breath. Her lungs rebelled as she fought to gulp in the cold air. She was more out of shape than she thought. Howling winds pushed her over the threshold, and doors slammed shut behind her as the natural chaos outside was hushed into the oppressive silence of the empty clinic waiting room.

Hecate crossed the room, her footfalls muffled by thin carpet. There were unoccupied individual chairs spread throughout the room, padded but not too much, and white walls reflecting the fluorescent lights above. Generic photographs of flowers lined the interior, and a water cooler sat gurgling in the corner. There was something vaguely familiar about the place, but Hecate could not quite put her finger on it. Perhaps it was the ambience, that odd simulacrum of hominess and detached sterility that seemed to be the mold for medical décor, and she had certainly heard her fair share of stories about the family practice. A woman seated behind the curved receptionist desk flashed her a welcoming smile, and despite her discomfort, Hecate found herself returning the smile reflexively.

“Hello, how can I help you this morning?” the receptionist greeted her warmly.

“I’m here to see Agatha Cackle.”

“Could I have your name, please?”

“Hecate Hardbroom.”

“Of course, I have you checked in for 8:30 am. It looks like Dr. Cackle isn’t in yet, but she should be with you shortly, if you’d just like to take a seat. Can I get you a cup of lukewarm water or entice you to a steaming hot mug of tea while you wait?” the woman offered eagerly.

Hecate repressed a snort at the lopsided options, “Tea would be fine. Thank you.”

“Perfect,” the woman said gleefully. “I was just brewing up a delicious blend for myself and wondering who I could share it with. I always find tea tastes better with company, don’t you?”

Hecate did not and, if she spared a moment to think about it, found the opposite to be true. She held her tongue but made no effort to school her features, quite certain her face spoke her opinion loudly, but the other woman seemed unfazed. Glancing around the otherwise desolate space, the over-friendly receptionist’s smile seemed to grow only brighter. It was an expression Hecate had long come to associate with Azura’s spontaneous, almost invariably disastrous schemes, a quality she attributed to the inevitable foolishness of youth, and she wondered into what shenanigans she was about to be roped. She was shocked Alma had allowed through such an unprofessional hire.

It seemed her judgments were well-founded as the woman continued, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the front desk for me while I check on that kettle, I’ll be back in just a few minutes.” Before Hecate could so much as utter an objection at the absurd request, the receptionist rendered her silent with a mischievous wink and left the room.

With little else to do but wait, Hecate perched nervously on one of the hard-backed chairs, the unyielding material clearly built more for style than for comfort. She supposed this was one of the perks of having a family of doctors for in-laws, or very nearly. Last-minute appointments for the smallest of ailments. Hecate hated doctors. The invasive poking and prodding always made her feel like she was on display, but the simple truth was, she did not want Ada to worry. Though she had tried to hide it, Hecate could tell that Ada had been apprehensive, and she never wanted to cause the already anxious woman any pain. If a visit to her sister, one of the foremost neurologists in the city, helped assuage her worries, then that is what Hecate would do.

So here she was, bright and early on a Wednesday morning. At least she was not scheduled to see Alma. Optimistic to a fault, Alma was the least formidable person she could imagine, relaxed in her demeanor and average in stature. In fact, Hecate towered over all the Cackle women, and yet, there was something about the perpetually cheerful woman that she found eerily disconcerting. Not that she would ever say any such thing to Ada. It would break her heart. In Ada’s eyes, her mother could do no wrong.

Behind the reception desk stood heavy metal doors leading into the innards of the clinic, likely the research wing that Alma was so proud of, her life’s work more so than either of her daughters. The doors were solid-set, opaque without even the obligatory windows to allow for the occasional pique of curiosity. Hecate shivered involuntarily. There was something inexplicably unnerving about the whole place, and she suddenly wished for a clean bill of health to bring home to Ada. The last thing she wanted was to have to come back. All at once, Hecate felt overcome with nausea, lurching forward as a startling shock of pain burst at her temples and her vision flickered with floating spots of glaring light.

_The corridor is dark, shadows spilling in from high windows that let in the moonlight. Closed doors line the hallway as she creeps soundlessly along the wall. A savage, animalistic shriek pierces the silence. She can hear struggle and wordless screams of rage. It is an endless screech of anguish and fury, hate and disgust, frustrated impotence boiled over, punctuated only by the pregnant pause of seething breaths. As she nears the source, she can see a girl her age, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, lying on a sterile bed in a bare room, her lanky reddish-blond hair flying about as she violently wrenches against her restraints over and over again. The door is locked with a deadbolt as if they fear she will somehow overcome the thick leather straps rubbing red and purple bruises along her pale wrists._

_Shuddering against the cold, she hurries along. Several more doors pass by before she catches sight of a familiar blond head. Facing away from the doorway, the girl is curled into herself, the bumps of her spine visible beneath the thin hospital gown._

_Quietly, she grasps the cold doorknob. The door opens, frictionless, a prison unlocked, for where could they run? Padding across the room with sure steps, her heart beating frantically in her chest, she reaches out a gentle hand to meet clammy skin. The other girl shivers against her touch in the airless room. Her shoulders are trembling, and as she turns to face her, she can see tracks of tears streaking her pallid cheeks._

_“You found me,” the other girl whispers disbelievingly._

_“Of course, I found you.” Crawling into the narrow bed, she wraps her lithe body around the other girl, enveloping her in her heat. Her rapid breaths puff lightly against icy skin, as she leans into the blonde, nuzzling into her neck, the exposed crest of her shoulder._

_Another rage-filled scream rips through the air, solidifying in the stillness._

_“They say she’s a bad seed. That she did something horrible to her neighbor.” She hears a ragged intake of breath as the other girl chokes out, “They say I’m different, that I’m only sick. That this will cure me.” The girl breaks into muffled sobs, and she pulls her tighter against her chest, resolved enough for the both of them. “I’m afraid.” Quivering fingers clasp her own. “I don’t want to lose you. That’s the part that terrifies me most. Help me to remember?” the other girl pleads._

_She squeezes back with all the love and courage she can muster. Gently rolling the other girl towards her, she cups her wan face, softly brushing tears from wet cheeks, and carefully leans in for a kiss, stopping a hairsbreadth away to allow her to turn away if she wishes. She braces for rejection, but none comes. Firm hands pull her down into a tender kiss, lips pressing with feathery lightness against hers. She is held there for long seconds, foreheads resting together as she loses herself in tasting and savoring this moment that has barely begun, when the clack of heels on linoleum tile thunders down the hallway. Brown eyes flicker open with panic as the blond girl croaks, “Go.”_

_And with a final desperate squeeze, she flees from the room._


	2. Chapter 2

Hecate winced from the dizzying flurry of jagged images, each less coherent than the one before. She could still feel the phantom touch of the girl’s tiny frame huddled against her own, and her pulse was racing with adrenaline, even as the jumbled shards that had induced it, half-illusion, half-nightmare, faded from her consciousness. Lines sharp only moments ago became fuzzy, faces hazy, and Hecate felt weak, depleted. Tightly gripping the chair beneath her, she clung to the hard frame. The room was empty, the receptionist still away, and the sterile metal felt cool against her fingers, sturdy and real, as she stared down at the weavings of the gray carpet, trying to get her bearings.

She was just beyond thirty, and her body was already betraying her, her muscles and joints prematurely creaky and sore.

“Try to relax. You hold a lot of stress in your body,” Ada would say, strong hands kneading at stubborn knots in Hecate’s shoulders. Hecate’s head lolled in response to the targeted pressure, pleasure and pain eliciting soft moans of appreciation from her throat at her girlfriend’s magic hands as they traveled up her neck and onto her scalp. 

The memory brought a small smile to Hecate’s lips. Ada was probably right, although how her mundane suburban life provoked such stress, she could never quite figure out. When she was younger, growing up in this large culture-less town on the outskirts of the city, Hecate had dreamed only of escape. Determined to follow in her late mother’s footsteps, Hecate had been fascinated by science, chemistry in particular, the collision of atoms, the implications of infinitesimal particles reacting in predictable and uncharted ways to generate energy greater than the sum of their individual parts, an energy that could then be harnessed to innovate and to heal. The possibilities had seemed endless. Capturing her imagination as only childhood dreams can, science had been the cornerstone of all her future fantasies: pristine white labs and whirring machines conducting experiments of every kind; the vibrant bustle of the city, teeming with new ideas and new people; the thunderous applause that accompanied awards celebrating her invaluable contributions to human progress; spreading her knowledge to classes of students filled with hungry minds akin to her own; the quiet idyll of a wife and family to call her own.

And then, in ways Hecate could still not understand, the future had arrived and unraveled. Instead of kicking off the dust of this suffocating town at the earliest chance, she had stayed nearby. Her four years at Weirdsister College were a blur that seemed to have left little to no impression on her life, and somewhere early on in her fragile career, her passion for science had petered out. Her passion for science had been snuffed so completely she felt almost an aversion to it now. The thought of lab coats and needles, scientific discovery and invention, prickled her skin, anathema to her very core.

She had left the world of science behind her, and now, she wrote for the local paper. Obituaries, to be more precise. Instead of fleeing her hometown, she had become steeped in it, its history, its people, and become, in her own way, a fixture of sorts. Words, stories, lives lived and lost, consumed her every working hour. There was something so compelling in the challenge to condense the nuances of a life into a few brief lines of text. Hecate sought to uncover every wrinkle, every crease. Her sketches, almost elegant in their sparing simplicity, were both an elegy and a celebration of a life, but most importantly, a remembrance that someone had been.

High heels suddenly encroached upon the square patch of dull, gray carpet that filled Hecate’s vision. A cup of tea swam into view as a kind voice rang out, “Here you go.” At the noise, Hecate cringed. Another wave of nausea crashed over her like glass shattering through her mind, and she thought she heard someone faintly calling her name.

_Soft skin is held in her hands as she peppers a face with imploring kisses. “Come with me,” she begs. Gone are the darkness and the metal trappings of institutionalization. Afternoon light streams in through slats in the translucent blinds, the room embodying the temporality of a middling motel and imbued with the deceptive coziness of hospice for the healthy._

_Resigned brown eyes stare out of hollowed cheeks as a young woman, hardly more than twenty, shakes her head, her shoulders weighted with sorrow, and her hands listless as she takes a few unsteady steps back. The distance seems yawning. “I’ve already signed the papers. I’m sorry.” The woman blinks tears from her eyes, running agitated fingers through blond hair, as she turns to hide her face._

_A tide of helplessness rises within her chest as she watches the other woman steel herself. The straightening posture is a dagger to her heart, and in that moment, she knows._

_The blonde woman meets her bereft gaze, a devastating finality to her words. “I’ve made my choice. It hurts too much.” A whispered confession, the double-edged revelation twists cruelly in the tense space between them, as if beseeching forgiveness and condemning her at the same time. Exhaustion is prematurely etched into her young face, the decision lying heavy on her mind._

_She yearns to reassure her. She wants to promise, things will get better. She intuitively knows the woman’s strength and her struggle. Glimpses of an older blond couple, sharing their daughter’s features, flash before her. She is hovering around the corner in the foyer as the young woman shakes and cries in the living room, “How could you do this to me?”_

_There are plaintive pleas for understanding. “We did it because we loved you. We didn’t want you to suffer,” they say, as the blonde runs out of the house, her arms clasped tightly around her middle as if she might break apart any second. She chases after her, igniting the engine with clumsy fingers and driving them far away until a muffled sob is wrenched from the shattered woman’s mouth._

_Her gangly arms provide reinforcement, and for a while, the pieces seem to mend and heal, bandages scotch taped together enough to staunch the blood._

_They walk across the grassy quadrangle, and her mouth curls upward into a silly smile as the blonde strides up stone steps, her ponytail bouncing. There is laughter and late-nights, languorous kisses, and lazy mornings. She holds onto these moments, but cracks soon mar the illusion. Winter break comes and goes, and she watches as the woman she adores slowly disappears. Her eyes become cloudier, joy leached from her until only brittleness remains, and her face strains with the effort to smile. She is light hidden under a bushel, and she holds her and holds her when the blonde cries into her chest at night._

_And she fears for her too, she who is so ill-equipped for hatred. She watches as boiling fury slashes at her insides and burns her from within. When her anger is finally spent and her eyes dry of tears, the next season seems even worse. The icy frost of betrayal lays barren the ground, and aftershocks of distrust crumble even the most tenuous attempts to rebuild._

_Her legs stumble forward of their own accord. She is halfway across the small room, her hand already extending to brush away escaping tears and to tangle their fingers together, until she hears, “It hurts too much to love you.” Her feet are stopped in their tracks. The words are calculated to wound, practiced and roaring so much louder in her ears than the “please, let me go” that lingers beneath._

_She feels her entire body flood with loss and preemptive grief. It is an impenetrable fog settling into her very bones, a grayness seeping into her skin. No, not again. “I can’t stay and watch,” she says tremulously. A conviction, an entreaty, she does not know. She simply can’t. She won’t. The other woman is stoic in her silence._

_Admitting bitter defeat, she leaves, her steps stilted and her eyes unseeing. As she casts a backward glance, the picture of that wasting figure framed in the doorway sears into her mind. The blonde sits calmly on the edge of the comfortable bed as if resigned to her fate. The only signs of her distress are her hands, rubbing futilely at shivering arms despite the summer heat._

_Stark black letters stand out against white paper. She had lied. Rather than heading towards the exit, she had made a deal with the devil instead. Knowing eyes peer out from behind round spectacles as a curly-haired, middle-aged woman says, “It can be hard to be the one left behind.” Her voice is sticky sweet with lies baked in comforting platitudes. A glutton for punishment, she scrawls her name on the bottom of the crisp contract and signs herself away. For now, she tells herself. There is a termination clause. This will buy her time. It feels like a bargain. A sympathetic hand stretches towards her, and she imperceptibly jerks her hand away, repulsed._

_She needs her. She would have paid anything. But the older woman’s words ring in her ears for a while, slivering through her veins like poison until she is unsure if she dreamed them altogether._

**********

“Ms. Hardbroom?” A worried voice called her back from the abyss. “Ms. Hardbroom, is everything all right?”

A dazed Hecate looked up, momentarily mesmerized by deep pools of concern. Ada? With a blink, her sight flickered, and Hecate realized her mistake. In place of her girlfriend, the receptionist was kneeling on the ground in front of her, a steaming mug of tea forgotten on the ground beside her and surrounded by a telltale splotch of darker gray.

Gingerly massaging her forehead, Hecate replied embarrassed, “Please, call me Hecate. I’m sorry for the mess.”

"Hecate.” The woman echoed the syllables of her name like a caress, and Hecate felt a sudden flush creep up her neck, like the self-conscious blush of a young girl receiving her first compliment. “And there’s no need to apologize.” The woman gave her a fleeting smile before repeating, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Hecate dismissed quickly, dismayed by her own vulnerability. “Thank you for the tea,” she said as she reached for the mug with a shaky hand. The fragrant liquid sloshed dangerously near the cup’s edge, and Hecate quickly gripped the ceramic in both hands to right its contents. Raising her eyes, she met a curved brow and a pair of astute brown irises staring back at her.

“Mmm-hmm,” the woman clucked, plainly unconvinced. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said as she perched on the chair beside Hecate, a hand already resting on her forearm. The weight of it felt steadying somehow, and Hecate made no attempt to inch away.

Taking a tentative sip of the tea, the blend of vanilla and black currant soothing her senses, Hecate said drily, “I’m far more afraid of the living than the dead.” Bemused, the receptionist looked at her expectantly, seeming to invite further confidences. Hecate gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, “Nothing quite so exciting. I imagine it’s just a bit of anticipatory anxiety.”

The woman’s forehead furrowed with worry. “I don’t mean to pry, but is it something serious?”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to ask me that,” Hecate murmured reflexively, her breath rippling across the surface of the tea as she took another sip. The question should have felt intrusive, the unwelcome probe of a stranger. Hecate waited for indignation, but she felt bizarrely cared for instead.

A surprised laugh burst forth from the other woman. Eyes sparkling, the receptionist mused in agreement, “No, you’re probably right. I don’t think I am.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear with a slight blush. Hecate thought it suited her. “Please excuse my rudeness. Of course, you don’t have to answer that. My curiosity often gets the better of me.”

“Migraines,” Hecate volunteered after a pause with a small gesture to her head. “Your average run-of-the-mill migraines. My ---” Hecate stumbled over her words, “Ada, my, uh, roommate.” The word felt bitter in her mouth. Why had she said that? Hecate hurried on, “She was worried. She encouraged me to get it checked, but more often than not, it’s more of the same.”

“Well, you have my sympathies, and Ada is right. Blinding, disorienting, debilitating migraines are well worth a check-up,” the woman affirmed with certitude.

“You too?” Hecate asked before thinking, and her heart seemed to tick a little faster.

“Mine are sporadic, seeming to come and go out of nowhere, but they’re also always worse in the fall. I’ve stopped trying to apply reason to them. I’ve had them since as long as I can remember, and at this point, I’ve come to accept that they’re a part of my life, as uninvited and predictably afflicting as my period.” The receptionist gave Hecate a full-cheeked smile. “Now, the key, I’ve found, is distraction.”

Hecate tended to prefer peace and quiet. The only adequate distraction she had ever found was Ada, Ada who expanded and compressed to fill in all the disjointed fractures of her mind, Ada whom she had just disavowed. Hecate shifted guiltily in her seat. As if sensing her discomfort, the other woman immediately removed her hand from her arm. Hecate felt another stab of shame when she missed it. She could feel the pressure building in her skull as her eyes traveled over those foreboding metal doors once again.

The woman followed her gaze and bent forward conspiratorially. “Oh, that’s the clinic’s top-secret research center. It’s all very hush hush. Dr. Cackle handles all those appointments directly, and I’m not even allowed back there.” She wiggled her eyebrows facetiously in a blatant attempt to distract Hecate, “If I didn’t know any better, I would say sinister business was afoot.” The receptionist waved her hand airily, “It’s probably just all the new regulations around patient privacy, but on slow mornings, I fancy the most outlandish possibilities. Can you imagine, Hecate? Dastardly experiments to exploit the vulnerabilities of the human mind. Evil plots to manipulate personalities, wipe memories, or override a person’s very autonomy through hypnotic control.” Hecate’s brows crawled towards her forehead in consternation at the sheer ridiculousness of the woman before her. This woman evidently had far too much time on her hands.

The receptionist chuckled at the expression she must have seen on Hecate’s face. “Oh, it’s not all bad. I give them the benefit of the doubt too and imbue them with noble intentions. Say, discovering a cure for neurodegenerative diseases or understanding the phenomenon of addiction.” The woman pattered on grandiosely, “Putting an end to human cruelty and suffering. Eradicating selfishness. Eliminating trauma. Or…,” she tapered off, searching for other far-flung hypotheses. “Or perhaps they’re mapping neural networks,” she concluded broadly. At Hecate’s skeptical look, the woman sent her a self-deprecating grin, “So, I may not entirely understand what neural networks are, but regardless, I imagine, they could be leveraged for the greater good.”

Hecate felt her mouth twitch upward at the corners. The other woman’s eyes glittered with mirth, and Hecate found herself entranced.

Suddenly, a medical assistant called from the door to the inner clinic, “Hecate?” At her name, Hecate tore her gaze away and abruptly stood up without a backward glance. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she felt inexplicably flustered and off-balance. “Hecate?” the woman, clad in purple from head to toe, confirmed with a smile. “Come on in.”

**********

Hecate followed the medical assistant through the hallways, her dark purple scrubs a beacon as the walls seemed to narrow in on her with every step. The fluorescent lights were blinding. Her legs felt like jelly, wobbling unreliably beneath her as if unsettled by her weight. On the right was a small room that seemed to pass for a staff kitchen. A refrigerator hummed, and the water cooler released a magnifying gurgle that only seemed to get louder as a young man in turquoise scrubs interminably filled his large water bottle to the brim.

Curling in and out, in and out, the corridor began to undulate. Its movements were both sinuous and frantic as it kept time with the laborious thumping of her heart. Hecate cradled her hammering head with one hand, gritting her teeth as she bore through the pain. Picture frames lined the far wall, photos of staff posed against distinguished and non-descript backgrounds, stark white coats juxtaposed against a deep blue. The familiar faces of Alma and Agatha gazed out at her with measured smiles, equal parts courteous and warm. Amid the noise and sensory assault, she tried to concentrate on relocating that moving figure of royal purple when she stumbled. Distracted from the natural rise and fall of her usual gait, her feet tripped over air, and her left shoulder crashed into a solid manilla panel with a bruising thud. Her eyes automatically sought out Agatha’s, Ada’s, her safe harbor, but it was too late. And her vision quickly faded to black. 

_She stands in darkness again, and her feet pound against the linoleum floor. Raised voices echo behind her amid inhuman screeches piercing through the blackness of night as she seeks a place to hide. She scrambles into a side hallway, hands groping along cool counters as she crouches into a corner. A refrigerator hums beside her, and she tenses at the occasional burble of water from a nearby cooler. A placid voice doles out instructions to search the premises from top to bottom with frightening serenity, and the sound of heavy boots rumble by. Her heartbeat races, adrenaline alighting her nerves as her legs tingle and twitch, waiting for the hall to clear._

_Infinite moments later, the steady clack of heels fades down the corridor, and she releases a stuttered sigh of relief. If she can only slip out the way she came._

_Her mind is chasing possibilities when suddenly, the room is filled with a glow of light that blinds her eyes and betrays her presence. As her vision adjusts, she focuses on the solitary figure of a young girl on the cusp of adolescence. Wide eyes outlined by thick, dark frames, the startled girl whips around, a cold can of soda clutched against her chest and her stunned mouth hanging agape._

_Spotted, she slowly unfolds her body from its hiding place crushed against the wall. Her hands raise in surrender, soundlessly asking for a kindness from the girl, as she carefully retraces her steps towards the kitchen door. The younger girl seems to take pity on her, merely closing the refrigerator shut as she silently watches her retreat._

_She takes step after quiet step, and she is halfway to the door and escape when another voice slices through the darkness._

_“Ugh, I’m hungry. Why do we even have to be here?” The voice grumbles petulantly as a small silhouette fills the doorway and a second, identical girl stops short. “Who are you?” the girl asks bluntly._

_She dares not pause to answer, unwilling to trust her luck a second time. She pushes past the girl and sprints down the corridor._

_An authoritative voice booms out behind her, “You, girl! Stop!”_

_She does not bother to look back. Instead, she bolts as fast as her long legs will carry her, and the incessant clatter of heels soon grows dim._

Then a steady grip was on her arm, and she was righted to her feet.


	3. Chapter 3

No, she was fine.

No, thank you, Hecate demurely declined. She did not need a glass of water.

Yes, she would be perfectly fine waiting in the room by herself.

No, no supervision was necessary.

With her vitals checked – all normal – and her tenacious medical assistant off attending to another patient, Hecate was finally alone. Peace and quiet was what she needed. Maybe a good sleeping pill. Her symptoms only seemed to worsen since deciding to come to the clinic, and Hecate acknowledged a newfound respect for the debilitating effects of anxiety. Forcibly unclenching her hands, she futilely attempted to smooth out the stubborn crinkles on the white paper beneath her before casting about the room for another distraction. 

A series of accolades hung prominently on the wall. A medical diploma, board certifications, and awards for research and clinical excellence, each ascribed with the same four words.

_Presented to Agatha Cackle._

Alma must have been proud, Hecate thought. Agatha, a medical prodigy like her mother, and the Cackles, well-known as a family dynasty of physicians.

“You’re a daughter after my own heart,” Alma had said fondly, cradling Agatha’s chin before reaching for her second glass of wine and another generous helping of the mashed potatoes during a most recent celebratory dinner for some neurological break-through or another. It was honestly hard to keep track, and Hecate had little interest in making the effort.

Hecate had been seated across from Alma, regretfully swirling the wine in her glass and still very much nursing her first. Regardless of how many times she had met with the Cackles over the years, she still felt thoroughly unnerved in their company, protective almost. Before the Cackles, it had been years since she had been privy to the conventional dysfunction of family gatherings, and she had forgotten the scars of a million little slights; the suffocating perfume of over-bearing affection; thoughtless chatter; the never-ending litany of potlucks, birthdays, and holidays; and, through it all, the unmistakably steady strand of forever. Stilted conversations with her father once a year could hardly compare. The raw, gaping absence of her mother palpable even now. In short, none of her previous experiences had prepared her for the tour de force that was the Cackle women. So she had concluded long ago that she needed her wits about her, no matter how much she wanted to down the whole bottle and disappear, propriety be damned.

Beneath the table, she reached for Ada’s hand, and Ada looked at her with a start. Hecate met her girlfriend’s gaze with love shining bright in her eyes and slowly brought their entwined hands up to press a gentle kiss to smooth skin. Her girlfriend put on a brave face, but she knew how much her mother’s blatant favoritism hurt her and this dinner had been no exception.

The motion had drawn Alma’s attention, and suddenly, shrewd brown eyes had snapped in her direction with needle-sharp precision. “Now Hecate, when are you and Ada going to tie the knot, make this official? I’m not getting any younger, you know,” the woman had said, her fingers unconsciously stroking through honey-colored tresses that belied her age. Alma was a woman of few vanities, but her hair was certainly one of them and not a single gray strand defied her will. “You two are going on, what, four years now? What about grandchildren? Surely, you must have discussed it. My little Ada was born to be a mother. Agatha here is carrying on the family business, and Ada the family genes.”

Hecate had barely suppressed a grimace, but, indelicate phrasing aside, the question had not been unexpected. After four years, she too wondered what held her back. She loved Ada. She was her everything. And yet, Hecate did not feel ready. Some nights, she would lie awake, confessing her fear of commitment. Confessions felt easier in the dark, and Ada, her perfect Ada, would squeeze her hand reassuringly. “No, I don’t believe that,” she would say with absolute certainty, sealing her words with a tender kiss. “You’re commitment incarnate, and I’ve never doubted you for a second. When you’re ready, you’ll know.”

Even in this instant, Ada had come swiftly to her rescue. “Mother, please,” she had chastised, her cheeks blushing scarlet despite her reasonable tone. “We’re not ready, but when we are, I promise you’ll be the first to know,” she had said with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

Adjusting the glasses that had slipped down her nose with one hand, Alma had raised her half-full glass with the other in mock warning, “Be sure that I am.”

There was a brisk rap at the door, and Hecate started at the sight of Agatha stepping into the room. The woman greeted her with a hug, “Hecate, I’m glad you could come in this morning.”

It always took Hecate a second to adjust to Agatha. Seeing Ada’s features arranged on her sister’s face, identical and yet so distinctly different, disconcerted her. Where Ada’s brown hair gathered in natural waves around her shoulders, often mussed after a long day in the classroom, Agatha’s was cut short and straight. Impeccably styled, she glided around the room, her white coat starched and pressed, her nails manicured, and her every movement confident and dignified. If Ada reminded Hecate of buttery toffee melting on her tongue, Agatha was all placidity, as cool and imperturbable as the surface of a lake on a frosty winter morning. Fathomless and crisp. It was not that Agatha was unforthcoming. She had always been genial to Hecate, affectionate even, making no secret of her approval of the match. But there seemed an unknowability to Agatha, the yin to the yang of Ada’s heart-on-her-sleeve guilelessness. Agatha conjured images of churning water, bubbling deep beneath the surface, like a submerged volcano harnessing impatiently for an inevitable eruption.

A funny association, considering how Hecate had never once seen the woman lose her temper. Every now and again, she might catch a near imperceptible twitch, a telltale scrunching of the brow, but in the next instant, it was gone, predictably smoothed away in a smile that mirrored her mother’s and one that Ada had never quite seemed to master.

Hecate responded, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Oh, please,” Agatha replied with a dismissive wave of her hand at the formality. “You’re practically family.”

The comment was said off-handedly, but it was all Hecate could do to fight off a reflexive shudder of unease. It was true. For all intents and purposes, she had been adopted into the Cackle clan, her induction assumed as an inevitability. Hecate remembered the hot breath moistening her ear and the heaviness of hands on her back as Alma had wrapped her in a suffocating embrace after that last family dinner, Hecate stiff and uncomfortable at the closeness. Alma had whispered approvingly, “I always knew you were special. Welcome to the family, Hecate.”

Agatha rolled out a stool from beneath the counter and perched on it with crossed legs. “When Ada called last night, she said it was urgent, and I could practically see her frowning with worry through the phone. So this is the least I can do. You know how Ada rarely asks for help,” Agatha said with a slight shake of her head, as if disclosing an inexplicable character flaw.

Another familial dynamic it seemed Hecate would never understand. Having no sisters of her own, Hecate could only chalk it up to a sisterly quirk. Ada rarely asked Agatha for anything, demonstrating a streak of willful independence that stood in such contrast to her usually pliant personality. At times, Hecate caught glimpses of guilt written across Ada’s face, other times, perhaps a hint of pity, and neither seemed rooted in the reality of their respective situations, Agatha with the world at her feet and Alma’s unwavering approbation while Ada struggled to make do on her teacher’s salary and scrabbled for the crumbs of her mother’s attention. 

“So, what’s been troubling you, Hecate? Ada said your headaches were flaring up again, but she was a little vague on the details,” Agatha prodded, settling down to the business at hand.

Hecate rattled off her symptoms, the headaches, the disorientation, while Agatha nodded in concentration, taking out her stethoscope to listen to her heart and lungs.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” Agatha gave her a short smile, briefly cupping the metal between her hands, before placing it on Hecate’s back. “Breathe in deeply for me,” she instructed. “Breathe out. Once again.”

Following the preliminary exam, Agatha clicked into a nearby computer, rapidly typing and deftly navigating from screen to screen. Hecate could see she was in her element now, pleasantries passed and focusing her prodigious mind on the complexities of her presented ailments.

Probing brown eyes turned her way, and Hecate had to stop herself from squirming at the scrutiny. Agatha had the same brown eyes as her sister and mother, but unlike the other Cackle women, hers were unhidden behind glasses frames. “It’s her way of claiming her ‘uniqueness,’” Ada had once teased, the air quotes audible and undeniably the impetus for many a childhood fight.

“Now tell me ---” Agatha began.

Hecate never got the chance to learn what information Agatha sought. At the command, vivid pictures flooded her consciousness, and Hecate knuckled her shirt as she attempted to ward away the visceral assault.

_“Now tell me your story.”_

_She is seated in a circle, surrounded by other hapless souls. Across from her, the now familiar young woman avoids her gaze. The pink of her sweater stands in stark contrast to her pallid complexion, almost mocking in its brightness_ , _as her fidgeting hands compulsively tuck loose strands of limp blonde hair behind her ear. She yearns to reach out and cover those hands, to assure her that she is not alone, that they can get through this together, but the words stick in her throat. Words had never come easily to her. While open affection spilled prettily from the blonde’s tongue, between classes, at the neighborhood ice cream parlor between slurps of strawberry milkshake and amidst sleepy yawns over breakfast, she would instead resort to the language of touch, leaning down for soft kisses, carding fingers through silky waves of blond, a steadying hand finding the dip of her waist. She had never wished more for the blonde’s boldness._

 _Her eyes scream for her to change her mind, but the blonde effectively shuts down all avenues of communication, brown eyes concentrating all their attention on picking at a loose fleck of skin on her battered thumb. Freshly healed skin scabbed over viciously torn flesh._

_An older, white-haired woman, her warbling voice laden with swollen grief, speaks of a fiancé, who abandoned her years ago, leaving her with nothing but a black-and-white picture in a locket._

_The romantic in her wonders what terrible misfortune befell the man, the cynic, if he is worth grieving at all._

_A teenage girl just shy of eighteen, a former prodigy of some sort, tells of a harrowing incident, caught up in the crosshairs of petty rivalries and inflated ambitions. Her gifts and talents vanished in an instant as all she had studied, all she had prepared for was stolen away in one fell swoop. Her parents were devastated, she says, and her mother had at first suggested everyone in the family undergo the procedure together, the loss of her daughter’s potential too much to bear._

_And yet, she thinks, it is only the girl, who remains to share her story here. It seems her mother’s recovery was swift._

_Another girl with a hollow, haunted gaze intones, “I killed my sister.” Her tone is flat, her eyes dull, as if she has repeated the same refrain many times before._

_She absorbs the details of this story more than she hears it. The death is clearly accidental, a tragic childhood fluke, but the girl’s narrative allows for little mercy. To be fair, no one in the room offers any._

_She feels as if she is trapped in a warped confessional. Some are here to atone for crimes, while others long for release from regret, shame, fear. A solid black woman somberly shares of violation, dosed into a drug-fueled state of ecstasy that had nearly lost her her job and, more cuttingly, her dignity. She grimaces, “I was a puppet to dance and entertain.” Her voice is low and steady. Her eyes stare around the room as if daring anyone to contradict her or to exonerate her offenders, but she sees the slight tremble of her lip. Beside her, a slight blonde girl, hardly more than a child, sits huddled in her chair, thin arms curled around her legs to take up as little space as possible. She speaks softly during her turn of being too afraid, as if this too is a sin. “Mother says this will make me stronger.”_

_Fury and loathing roll through her insides. Mixed in is something else too, a deep pulsing she recognizes as terror. These hurting women and children, this supposed coven of heretics, are closed in by a prison far more powerful than the tallest walls, the tightest restraints, or even the fiercest of captors. Peering out from behind those golden frames, the curly-haired woman smiles blandly and calls it treatment._

_She hates her._

_Soon all eyes shift towards her, and the curly-haired woman inspects her with naked curiosity._

_“Pass,” she spits out through gritted teeth. But it seems disclosure is not an option, demands disguised as choices. There are so few choices here. She does not know why she is surprised. She speaks curtly of her mother’s prolonged illness and death, offering up her pain in tacit exchange for permission to stay. The doctor’s face has calcified into polite disbelief, unimpressed and infuriatingly patient. A begrudging admiration shines from her eyes and a terrifying belief in the process, an assuredness that she can wait her out._

_That fear spikes within her again. She knows she is playing a dangerous game of chicken, but she knows just as surely that she cannot back out now. Not yet._

_Without meaning to, her gaze strays to the blonde across from her. She searches hesitantly for something, for comfort maybe, strength, the minutest of responses. Her story, abbreviated and shorn thin, trips out of her with halting deliberateness, a plea and a challenge woven into her words, but the other woman blatantly ignores her, the only sign of her listening at all a slight flinch at her untruths._

_She remembers how the blonde had held her in her grief, easing the streaming ache of loss more times than she can count, but even still, she could not imagine ever erasing her mother. Memories were the last she had of her, and the very idea stripped her bare._

“Hecate? Hecate, can you hear me?” Hecate can feel the cool metal of the stethoscope against her chest as Agatha’s questions broke through her trance.

Hecate swallowed thickly as she took in the room around her, no longer spinning, and latched onto Agatha’s appraising gaze, a pen held between her thumb and forefinger.

“Here, I want you to try to follow this pen.”

Dazed, Hecate tracked the silver pen as best she could, blinking rapidly as she adjusted to the light.

After a moment, Agatha gave a satisfied nod and observed, “It’s like you were somewhere else for a second there.” She paused contemplatively, “With the severity of your symptoms, I think this warrants further exploratory tests.” At Hecate’s look of alarm, Agatha attempted to soften her tone, “I don’t think these are just migraines. Let’s get you scheduled for an MRI.” Agatha tapped a few buttons on the screen before continuing, “And I’d like to see you again for a follow-up in about a week once we get the results. You can make the appointment at the front desk, and tell them you can take one of my early morning blocks, if needed. We want to get you in as soon as possible.”

Next steps determined, Agatha quickly crossed the room and opened the door. Hecate was still seated, unmoving, as her sluggish mind struggled to catch up. With a reassuring glance thrown over her shoulder, Agatha advised, “And try not to worry yet, Hecate. We’ll get you sorted, I promise. Or Ada would never forgive me.”

Hecate thought she nodded uncomprehendingly, and soon Agatha was sweeping from the room for her next patient of the day.

Gathering her coat with trembling hands, Hecate walked slowly down the corridor, following the red exit signs on autopilot. On her right, she passed the display of staff photographs, Alma and Agatha looking down upon her from the top row, and for a second, Hecate thought she glimpsed the mocking twist of a smirk, the victorious raise of an eyebrow. She squinted against the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights glinting off Alma’s golden frames, and the image was gone, replaced with starched white coats and plasticized smiles, utterly unremarkable.

Near the kitchen, there was the lingering scent of a bagel crisping in the toaster, hovering on the edges of burnt.

 _Fire_. _She hears the whispers. A fire in the administrative offices._

_She finds herself in the same sterile room, in the same muted circle. As always, her gaze seeks out the blonde. Her cheeks are thinner now, and she knows instinctively that she is refusing her meals._

_New faces fill out the circle today. A young, high school-aged girl with neatly French braided plaits is speaking. Yesterday, she had screamed her throat hoarse, bodily dragged down the hall and resisting every step of the way. Today, she sits well-coiffed and put-together as if hoping that if she can just follow all the rules, if she can just present as normal, as better, she will be set free._

_The girl is trying so hard to make it seem effortless, her dimpled cheeks smiling out at the group, and she pities her._

_Beside her is a young woman with defiance and a malicious gleam of rebellion sparking from her eyes. Her face seems familiar, although she cannot quite place her. She echoes mockingly, “Why am I here?” She bites out a bitter laugh. “You can’t change or exchange me, mother. This is what you got.”_

_“Don’t test me,” the curly-haired woman snaps._

_It is the first sliver of humanity she has seen in the unflappable woman, an underbelly of unmistakably human ugliness, but as quickly as it arrives, the woman’s face smooths over into a mask of serenity._

_The group drags on and on as newcomers share their stories and old ones are retread, the hours interminable. Her attention drifts in and out, but every now and again, she feels herself being watched. When she finally locks eyes with the blonde, beseeching brown eyes stare back at her for the first time in days, as if begging her to go._

_So she stays._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is a different type of story for me, so I'd love to hear what people think :)


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